I want you to hold me -

even though I fight.

Tie me down if you have to

and cover me with kisses,

until I’m bruised and can sleep.

Wear Your Seat Belt

Love – the world’s biggest vulnerability ever. Just stay clear, love is a worm hole of catastrophe. There's nothing worse than the leftovers of emotion, the discovery of Nothing, finding the small man behind the curtain – it's like the lights coming on when having sex with an unattractive person. Keep those lights off, keep that heart closed – it's  safer that way. And this advice is free . . .

You know what’s scary? When you wake up from a night of heavy drinking and your husband (or whoever) thanks you for the great sex, and then asks if you’re “okay.” Sometimes it’s just better not knowing…

Learn Your Lesson, Please

King Henry can hurt from the inside,

Feel good on the outside,

And break your smile

Because he does absolutely nothing good for your heart.

The Tango

           The tango is a struggle between dominance and submission. The male dancer leads, the female dancer follows. In actuality, she allows herself to be led. She moves her body backwards at the same second he brings his body forward. The audience is led to believe he is strong enough to move both their bodies. What a strong man. What a submissive woman. What a perfect match. What a beautiful dance.

           I have danced the tango every night for the past hundred years without ever stepping out onto the dance floor. The first time I ever danced the tango was forever ago – the first time I ever saw him. It is an odd feeling; the recognition of destiny. The realization that you will dance under a spell for the rest of your life, or until guilt whittles you down to your knees. My first dance and I thought: For you, I will dance the tango. Forever. For you. I once read, with stars in my eyes, a piece on the tango, which described it as, “public displays of intimate miseries, shameful behaviors, and unjustifiable attitudes. The tango is…a spectacle of traumatic encounters, a story of meetings between those who should never have met.” As is necessary for one person to follow the other, I have never endured the grace to do so – yet I have danced the tango every night. I have mastered the steps; the intricate precision of rehearsed and practiced motions – I am a master of the tango’s illusion.

However, the tango, like many things in life, is not something one can simply forget how to do. Once mastered, the steps to the tango become engraved into your mind, as if they were hieroglyphics from your earliest encounter with civilization.

           How do we rebel against the tango? Against the routine of performing the same acts of submission? It is hard to defy, yet effortless to succumb to. When faced with the raging war on duality, one can remain submissive for only so long. After playing a submissive onstage in front of an audience for so long, it is inevitable for us to rebel. Rebelling against the restraints of oneself is most painful, especially when we have tied our own knots.

           After years of performing – I rebel. It is a constant and unwavering pattern, a cycle, a universal truth. After years of performing, I will rebel. All performers that play submissives on stage, rebel.  Occasionally, after a performance an actor will indulge in actions very unlike himself, in efforts to prove that he is nothing like his character onstage. Or occasionally, after a performance an actor will indulge in certain addictions in order to escape the role he plays onstage, to forget the fact that the next day only brings the same routine, the same lines, and the same dance. Or occasionally after a life time of performing, an actor will become an introvert – weary of performing exclusively for the delight of others and longing to forget the stage and unlearn the steps. This is an example of the great lengths we will go to, to distance ourselves from what binds us to submission. I believed the only remaining relic of my youth existed solely in my husband’s memory of me. But, like any good archeologist or tomb raider, I uncovered real proof that I once existed. I found a fly-away sliver of self that I had written. When Nina Simone said “You’d be so nice to come home to,” she meant herself, for we are our own missing piece. But he, he is paradise. Yet, at the end of all my performances, the shell is still empty and only ghostly remnants of vibrancy exist in faded versions of written stories and these fragments of poetry. Entire lives can be lived onstage; the actors die each night only to be reborn again prior to the next curtain call. The world becomes your audience and it is all around you.

           There are endless avenues we tour on our journey to rebelling against the tango. Some people living a submissive life – whether on stage or off - choose to rebel by leading double lives that no one knows about; seeking deviance before going home to a yellow house with a white picket fence. Others rebel by being mentally defiant. I am dancing the tango with you, but thinking about another leading man.

           I have had many other roles onstage that influence my rebellion offstage. I rebel against the tango off stage by being dominant in all other areas – except for my performances. I have played World’s Best Mother in which I was a member of the PTA, classroom Mom, and book fair volunteer (I won an award for the portrayal of that character). To counteract this consuming role I became a recluse each night after bedtime. Retreating under the stars to the backyard shed for solitude and to inhale long, deep hits of burning tranquility. I hid from my other roles by relaxing during this one. I once played the role of a perfect housewife a housewife that kept a spotless home, and though she couldn’t cook she praised her husband exuberantly for his expert role in the kitchen. To counteract this consuming role – I jumped into many deep pools, some of which I still drown in today. I am tied to my past with cement blocks. Tied tight with tight knots, from which I will never escape.

           Who we are backstage is what makes us either excel or fail at our performances on stage. Since who I am backstage has been replaced with the obsession to master the tango, I live for my performances onstage. Dancing the tango can begin to fade a person, the way the sun fades artwork once bright and vivid. Dancing the tango begins to fade a person the way time begins to fade memory – causing us to fill in hazy pieces of a timeline with wishful thinking. Dancing the tango begins to fade a person the way age fades the beauty of youth – tugging at the tight skin, clawing out the innocence in the eyes.  I feel myself begin to fade. I feel my mouth – once quick and succulent – grow silent and dry, like the desert at night. My hands, once livid with the longing for expression, now cringe at the thought of writing. I feel my legs – once fast moving and firm – grow weak and unable to dance. I feel that guilt whittle me to my knees. I dance one last tango and then I put down my pen. The life this actor once led, the identity once filling her shell, the person she once was – is gone. Instead, I now live vicariously, I live and exist through my well-rehearsed roles and well learnt tango steps.

Fall

Hundreds of titles begin with "The Fall –" there’s ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ (one of my favorites), the fall of Troy, the fall of Rome, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the fall of Man, and the season – the season is cold, snowy, an end to the warmth of summer. There is crispness in the air, alertness in step, red noses, and cold, cold hands. Even the word ‘fall’ has a negative connotation; people are always "falling in with the wrong crowd," or "falling down drunk," or worst of all, "falling in love," the most vicious of traps. But many do like the Falling . . . and to fall into something - anything - would be rousing wind stimulating midnight's desert.

The Friend and the Lover

Women have anguished over the desire to obtain the perfect man; a man who is both their all desired lover, as well as their most loyal, truest, and best friend. But for as long as that battle to find the perfect combination of the two qualities has raged, so has the disappointment – as such a find is rare. Women today share a struggle similar to that of Sisyphus, we push that boulder up the hill of Impossibility and it grows steeper and steeper with each passing day. Good luck women - may you find your perfect Romeo and keep him tight; may you have the insight to recognize the lover you want – who makes you feel like a woman, and the friend you need – who lets you cry on his shoulder and carries you to bed when you’ve had too much to drink; and may you have the fortune to find the perfect man who encompasses all that we know of love, romance, and Prince Charming.

Insert Bob Dylan song here ______________

Today was an incredibly emotional day for me.  I gave my 2 weeks at the spa and for me, it was a very sad thing. I’ve been so fortunate to not only have a job in this economy, but to have a job that I absolutely love, and to work with friends who I love like family.  I’ve tried (almost to the point of success) to convince myself that I am making the right decision, that the money being offered combined with a better opportunity, is enough to push me out of the nest I’ve grown to love so much.  We’ll see if my self delusions prove triumphant, until then - I mourn the fast approaching changes . . .

I realize Change is essential. It is an unavoidable inevitability, like the falling of leaves, the passing of time, and the cycle of life. So why do we still fight against it, as if we have a chance of victory, as if we can count the sand on a beach or the stars in the sky? There’s no changing the course of Change, or the outcome of fate, there’s only making the best out of life and loving the ones you meet along the way. Realizing this as a universal truth, I cannot help but mourn the path of Change…